


Come Hell or High Water

by necronism



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, M/M, Slow Burn, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-19 19:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necronism/pseuds/necronism
Summary: After several years of running from the law with his brother, Andrew Rose crosses the wrong family and winds up running, again, but this time - for his life. His run-in with another gang of outlaws is the only thing keeping him from death's door, especially after falling headlong into the Grande Ronde in the middle of November. The year is 1890, and the newly founded state of Washington is only now being perused by various gangs and rustlers. A river divides Andrew, now twenty-six, between his deadly past with the Harcourt Gang, and his future beside a non-nonsense tycoon and part-time thief, Calvin Whitaker.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MellowJam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellowJam/gifts).



> Yeah, a lot of this has been inspired by the influx of RDR. Andrew and Whitaker are OC incarnations of Arthur and Dutch, but since I don't go to that fandom class anymore, we basically settled down on creating a world of our own with some slow-ass-burn angst that ends in tragedy. Literally. I just have to get to Point B, so... here's Point A.

Andrew held his hat down over his eyes, cursing every moment that had led up to this. A pistol was clutched in the other hand. Joshua, the oldest, bowed his own head and muttered a prayer, his rifle held tightly to his chest. There was barely a breath’s space between their bodies, the both of them listening to the sound of the ricocheting bullets. Snow kicked up over Andrew’s shoulders with every one that worked itself into the earth around them. For a gang, they were a terrible shot, but they were chasing two young men running for their lives for the sake of revenge. And they had gotten this far through the wilderness; two men without a horse followed by a small caravan of thieves and murderers.

The boulders were their only cover, the dunes their wall between surviving one of their stupidest mistakes and certain death. A trail of blood had given them away, no matter how hot each drop was, melting through the dense floor of snow. Joshua tipped back his head, letting out a cold breath, before glancing over to Andrew, who stared back with wide eyes.

_How the hell did it come to this?_

Andrew Rose would be twenty-three in a month, twenty-five actually. Joshua had just turned twenty-seven the following week and they had celebrated by getting cocky. All they had done for the past six years was cheat and lie and steal. They had made friends over mutual hobbies, finding each other’s hands in their pockets at opportune times. Joshua had a knack for it. Andrew followed along. They were doing this for a greater good, or so the oldest liked to remind them.

One good steal and they get back on home to Mama.

Joshua hadn’t accounted for their gang leader, Kenny Harcourt, being a light sleeper. The second they had parted slipped a hand under his pillow to check for the keys to the caravan’s trunks, they had been met with the muffled click of a revolver’s hammer pulling back. The cylinder fell into place. Andrew had shut his eyes, expecting a bullet in the back of their heads, but the old man had given them a head start. It was always a game.

Four days and counting, the brothers had made it to the border of Washington and Oregon. The earth rose before them across the Grande Ronde; unmanned and untamed terrain. It would be about fifty years before roadways were carved into the sides of the mountains there. Fifty years these two young man didn’t have to spare. They had been tracked like wild animals with little time to eat or sleep. Joshua had done his best to keep his brother running ahead after a bullet ripped into his side.

“Listen good,” he whispered, although there was no need to be left unheard. His words were clouded in the air, lingering for a moment before they thinned into nothingness. He had to take a few deep breaths before continuing, turning himself and clutching the blood-soaked coat. “You gotta run for the water.”

“Josh, I-"

“Run for it like you ain’t seen water in weeks.”

Andrew bit the inside of his cheek, ducking down again as a few more bullets sprayed snow over the two men. There was silence between them, only filled by Joshua’s labored breaths. It was impossible to accept defeat after having gone this far, after having wasted so much time and energy in Kenny Harcourt’s sick game. They _were_ game. Big game.

“Settlers used to get across the Ronde all the time, that’s the last chance you got. They ain’t gonna waste their horses to get across into a state that ain’t even their home.” He touched his little brother’s hand, the one that trembled around the grip of his gun despite the layers of fur and leather between flesh and metal.

The idea was insane either way, but Andrew didn’t know how to protest against that logic. If he stayed here, Harcourt’s men would get them. If he used the river,  maybe they’d shoot him in the back before the freezing waters overtook him. By some miracle he survived, they’d think him dead anyhow. Yet, he still shook his head, taking Joshua’s hand in both of his own and bringing it to his forehead.

“I ain’t leavin’. There’s gotta be some way.”

“Yeah, I know.” He adjusted the rifle against his shoulder, hooking the heel of a boot into the snow as he prepared to stand. There was a sharp _TING_ of a bullet piercing the earth and into rock, causing them both to flinch. But Joshua wasn’t getting back down.

The muzzle was used to make a divet in the snow, the butt of the stock pressed onto Joshua’s chest as he adjusted himself. He faced the Harcourt boys head-on. They seemed to be stalling, pacing back and forth on their horses, calling their names into the open air. Andrew stared up at his brother, unable to move just yet, just watching him tease the trigger.

“Go,” he exhaled weakly, eyeing down the barrel. “ _Go_.”

 

Each ragged breath was an icy emptiness in his lungs, his audible gasps and coughs wracking his chest as he crashed through the snow. He could hear the rifle pull off a few shots in succession before they were answered and the air fell still, silent. Even his own lungs seemed to stop, although his legs kept moving, each step a muffled crunch of snow beneath him. His tears froze on his cheeks. There were no prayers loud enough at the moment to overcome the sinking in his chest. Even as he broke through the bank of snow and to the river’s edge, he just stared across the water.

He had almost forgotten he was being pursued, until the sound of a gun made him start, jump, right off the banks.

The second he touched the water, he was met with darkness.

* * *

 _**November 13, 1890** _  
_I never seen a man so cold. Thought he might be mad for jumping in the way he did. Took a while for us to get him warm enough to get talking but even then he could barely put together the last few days of his life. Said something about a man named Kenny hunting his brother and him down. Like rabbits, he said, before he was out cold again. Not sure why we’re wasting resources keeping him alive but he’s sturdy, that one. Stubborn. Ain’t walking backwards into God’s arms any time soon. More he wakes up the more he’s got to say, but usually it ain’t to us. Calling out to someone named Joshua - guess that’s his brother. If he jumped into the waters too we sure as hell didn’t find him._  
_Not sure how to break that to the man.  
Says his name is Andrew Rose._


	2. Chapter 2

Conscious thoughts were few and far between. Each time he seemed to open his eyes, new faces greeted him from across the campfire. The most he heard were a few questions, being asked his name and what made him jump into the freezing waters of the Grande Ronde. _Am I here? Did I make it? Did I die?_ They weren’t sure how to answer those questions, but one of them men introduced themselves as the head of this small party, Calvin Whitaker, who explained how they saw him from about a mile out falling headlong into the waters after running like mad. Andrew had very little to say, only nodding along, or nodding himself back to sleep.

When they weren’t camping in one spot along the rivers, he was being hoisted up onto the back of a horse and secured with rope against another rider. All unbeknownst to him, of course. The men were careful with him, but argumentative about his stay. Whitaker seemed to wave off their concerns over food rations and sleeping space. Andrew Rose didn’t take up room at all as far as Whitaker was concerned, orchestrating the young man’s revival as a testament to his heart of gold - for the moment.

A week would pass before Andrew could keep his eyes open long enough to finally study their faces, match names and voices to them. A few more days would pass before he found the strength to croak out a word.

“Joshua,” he whispered. He was barely heard over the stoked fire, a few of the men looking between one another before back at Andrew, who tried again after a few deep breaths. “ _Is Joshua okay?_ ”

From the silence, he assumed no, he wasn’t. That the last events he remembered weren’t fever dreams. He saw his brother’s face, growing pale and paler, the bloody tracks growing longer and longer behind them in the snow. A stark reminder of their mortality, their losing hand in the game. Andrew slowly lowered his face into the furs he was wrapped in, letting out a small moan. All his energy had been put into pulling through the next night that he barely had any to channel his own anguish.

“I’m sorry, kid.” A low voice, warmed by the whiskey the owner was nursing.

Andrew peeked out to see the man he had assumed to be Whitaker in his moments of consciousness. Dark hair, a few strands hanging over his dark eyes that glinted with each jumping ember of the fire; it was pulled back over his ears, held back by what could be assumed was a short ponytail. His head tilted as they regarded one another, like two wild cats crossing into the wrong territory. The strands fell across in a thin curtain.

“We only found you, no one else. Got you out as quickly as we could. You should be so lucky to have most of your fingers and toes right now.” The man chuckled, sitting up straight and running a few fingers over his mustache. From what Andrew could see, he was a fairly neat man, but most criminals were. A band of rogue men fishing people from the waters that bordered two newborn states? He knew the type. “You can count ‘em when you’ve even got feelin’ back in your legs. Only been about a week and a half.”

None of this sounded particularly grounded to Andrew, who let his eyes wander across the faces that glanced over to him, mostly out of morbid curiosity. None of them had expected the man to pull through, but just as Andrew had been unwilling to die, Whitaker had been vigilant in his carings-for. It was an unspoken bond that he felt immediately, meeting the man’s eyes for a moment and receiving a smile in return; one so small, but enough to turn up the edge of his mustache. Andrew stared back, eyes narrowing for a moment. He wished he could feel a kinship for this group but for now he felt nothing. There had been no time to even grieve his brother, who he could only assume dead after what he remembered experiencing.

_The rush, the guns firing, the silence that following, only to be broken by another rapid step into the snow._

“He’s dead,” Andrew croaked, letting his face fall back into the furs.

No one spoke. No one had anything to say, only returning their glances again.

“Probably,” Whitaker muttered, combing at his mustache again. “Whatever the hell you were runnin’ from, I figure it was enough to make you risk freezing rapids. Like I said, you’re lucky to be in one piece…”

These _weren’t_ comforting words.

 

The next time Andrew found himself awake, he wasn’t wrapped up like he had been before. His arms were free at least. With a stretch, he found out that his wrists were bound, his cheek pressed against warm leather. For a moment he didn’t struggle, squinting through the darkness. The sound of hooves in the snow, snapping rotten twigs beneath, enough to hint they were moving again. _But why was he suddenly a hostage?_

“Don’t freak out,” came the soothing voice of Whitaker. The surface which Andrew found himself slouched against straightened. The darkness didn’t lift, as he soon found out they were traveling during the night. Not even the moon could break through the storm following them. “You kept kickin’ in your sleep an’ I wasn’t havin’ any of that on the back of my horse. Understand?”

No, he didn’t. He pulled at the restraints again, feeling a large hand close over his fingers to hold them still. Andrew flushed, exasperated, unsure if he was a friend or a foe to this gang. He was someone’s boy, after all, someone’s brother, and someone had gone through the trouble of hunting him down. To someone, he might be a ransom, worth more than the days wasted following drops of red against the white.

“ _Shh_ , darlin’.”

The hand gently pet his own. Leather gloves, a fur inlining. The kinds of gloves his brother had taken off bodies, the kind Kenny Harcourt had worn once the chill set in. The _expensive_ kind. They weren’t some ordinary band of thieves and criminals - they were successful ones. Had to be. Kenny Harcourt had been a few grand away from giving up the business for good, but it was in his nature to spill blood. To antagonize.

_Birds of a feather._

“You say somethin’, son?” Whitaker muttered, his back straightening again. Andrew shook his head as best he could against the man’s shoulder blades, shutting his eyes.

No way in hell he could trust these people, even if they had saved his life. His worries were only met by his exhaustion yet again, body swaying to each heavy step of the horse. Over snow, earth, hills, always travelling.

Once his hands were warmed up, Andrew counted his fingers. They were all there.

* * *

 _ **November 18, 1890**  
_ _Comes the day this fella can string more than five words together is the day we get our own answers. Don’t mind hauling him around with us since all he does is sleep. Doc ain’t sure if a couple of his toes and a finger are gonna pull through but that’s nothing we haven’t dealt with before in a winter. Just says we gotta keep him wrapped up in furs and feed him when he can keep his head up. Taken that upon myself to figure out, study the foolish pony as I’ve come to call him. Not by his name, not sure if he deserves that right yet. Not in this band. No more than pup at this point._


	3. Chapter 3

As weeks went by, Andrew found it more and more difficult to truly grieve for his brother. Without a body, without evidence, he felt lost in those emotions. Many of the other men discussed family they had lost to sickness or old age, or accidents around their ranch, but none of them seemed to know how to comfort Andrew Rose. Even Whitaker had taken to giving him long looks across the fire, coaxing him with the slow turning of a hand, ushering for him to keep talking - about his feelings, what he had left behind.

The truth was, it didn’t feel like much. Seven years ago they wanted to be their own hero to their mother, scrounge up enough money any way they knew how. Turns out they were better at lying and perfecting their poker faces than they were dedicating themselves to manual labor. What was once honest work in the fields or helping rebuild homes felled after storms turned into late nights at the bars, glancing over their shoulders, figuring out a language between them to give other players’ hands away.

“Like Morse code,” Whitaker commented, to which Andrew shrugged and began to pick at the end of his sharpened stick. The tip had been burnt black, and he ran the soot across his palm. “Or counting the cards your players have, findin’ out what’s left in the deck. All that strategy. The kind that gets ya kicked outta bars.”

“I ain’t good with numbers,” Andrew mumbled, looking up from his ashen palm. “Ain’t much good with letters either. Left all that to Joshua. Brains of the two of us.”

Whitaker frowned, sitting back. He dug the heels of his boots into the dirt as he stretched, tracking two lines behind them. The answer seemed to displease him. Andrew shrugged again before throwing his stick in the fire and getting to his feet. While he had regained complete control over his body, there were still various cold spells and aches through the day, even then sun shone. Whitaker insisted that until they got into a more established settlement, he shouldn’t take the chance of braving the cold on his own. Depending on who went to bed at what time, Andrew usually wound up being stuffed into that tent to keep warm, safe against the unpredictable winter weather.

A few times he had been holed up with Whitaker, who insisted to stay up past usual curfew, by candlelight, and write in a journal of his. The scratching of the pen didn’t seem to bother Andrew, who struggled to keep his eyes open and watch the man hone a skill he didn’t have the pleasure of knowing. The scratching of the pen told a story, somewhere and somehow, only stopping when Andrew felt himself whimper awake, or form words where no sound could be mustered.

_“Y’alright, Rose?”_

No one else had asked him that in so long, assuming he was heartily surviving and had gone through the past week and a half. Joshua had never bothered asking before, as their transient stays in towns and gangs were usually better moments of peace. He’d ask Joshua to write to their mother for him, let the poor woman know they were alright since she wasn’t there to dote on them anymore. What would she think of them, or the one boy that was left?

“ _Rose?_ ”

 

December was close, give or take a few days, according to the calendar kept by the group. Their mission was unclear; they hunted to feed themselves but for the moment made no mark on the surrounding, newly-developed society. Whitaker often took Andrew out on his horse, stating it would do him some good sitting up and getting some fresh air. The most they did was go out about a mile ahead of their caravan, walk the frozen banks of the river, try to get more than a few sentences out of Andrew before he ducked his head back down against Whitaker’s shoulder.

Without Joshua, this life didn’t have the easiest drive to keep on moving. Without Joshua, he found himself in the deepest cycle of sleeping, eating, those warm rides with Whitaker, and being asked too many questions about the Harcourt gang than he bothered to answer. They had no previous knowledge about the man, stating they had ridden up the west coast and stuck to it, keeping their heads down for the most part when it came to crime.

Calvin Whitaker was from Oklahoma, had inherited his father’s business but stated, rather clearly, that he had no interest in sticking around oil rigs all his life. The men that had followed him out into the wilderness, the unclaimed territory of America, were from various backgrounds of criminals, thieves, even killers. More often than not, the latter of the gang were only connections forged through fire, fights, and mutual hatred.

When Andrew asked why he decided to use his influence for seedier jobs, he simply stated that it was “more fun”. It had gotten a smirk from the man, but he didn’t feel the sincerity of his own gestures.

“Sure, I used a little of my father’s money to get what we need in an emergency back in the day,” Whitaker explained one evening as they rode out, Andrew nestled behind him with a heavy coat, “but after a couple years, ya kinda know how to spot your targets. Slow-moving caravans, valley-passers, even hunters usually have somethin’ we could use.”

“What for?” Andrew had asked, propping his chin up on Whitaker’s shoulder. The rides were easier to handle when he could see where they were going. Up ahead, through the veil of light snow and darkness, several lights flickered in a line. He felt a hand move across his own as Whitaker reached for the gun at his belt. The fingers molded perfectly against the metal, pulling the hammer back before he even drew.

The lights up ahead bobbed and swayed with each step of the horses that pulled their carriages, their wagons. Whitaker glanced over his shoulder, their faces inches away from one another, and smirked.

“ _Money_.”

* * *

 ******_December 2nd, 1890_**  
 _New Year draws in and Mr Rose is finding himself right at home. What he lacks in conversation he makes up for in his strategy. We’ve been tracking a caravan for two weeks now that never seems to stop and Andrew has already been able to memorize their habits - right down to what was left behind with each doused campfire. Every time we fell back a few miles from storm, he knew how to pick us right back up. Sooner or later we’ll get them back at their own campgrounds._  
 _Now that the furs are off and he’s no longer frozen, he’s proving to be more than an optional ransom. With his brother dead and the two of them resorting to turning on their own gang, I have to guess he’s got no family to go back to._  
 _Sooner or later we’re gonna have to get him riding on his own. Reading next._


	4. Chapter 4

A few robberies here and there never hurt anybody. Whitaker was careful to let a few settlers go with a warning to the next town over, never dropping the name of their gang or anything fancy like that. Since it was mid-December and the storms were picking up almost every other hour, on the hour, no authorities were going to wasted their time trying to follow a band of outlaws through the snow. Any tracks would be covered by a fresh layer of snow and campfires would be frozen over by the time they were discovered. They were an almost invincible force, faceless and unseen through the whipping veils of snow. They moved silently behind various caravans and wagons carrying all sorts of reserves. One night they’d wind up with extra crates of alcohol, the next they’d be sneezing their way through a few bags of spices and dried goods.

Those nights they were able to sit around with a bottle of whiskey or rum each were Andrew’s favorites. While there remained a disconnect between his arrival and the men around him, he felt welcome whenever alcohol was brought into the mix. Men showed their vulnerable side, shared the stories they’d otherwise bury deep down and drag to the grave with them - not because they were dark, but more so because a lot of these thieves were afraid to turn their backs on a brave face. It was these nights that Whitaker seemed to pulls Andrew in with the rest of the family, shoving a bottle to his chest and _insisting_ that he join the fun.

The man was persistent but protective, reserved but deservedly so. What little Andrew knew about him was made up for in the little things that shone through; the small actions and habits only he seemed to witness as he was carted along on the back of the Calvin Whitaker’s Pintaloosa. He wasn’t bothered by the closeness, however, rather enjoying the void in his chest being filled with something, or someone, no matter what form it came in. Be that of a man with an even mustache and a bad temperament towards townies that didn’t hear him the first time, or these long rides in the middle of the night they braved to get to the next mountainside road. His arms were always around that man’s waist, even if he joked that he didn’t have to expect them to tie him up anymore.

Not as if Whitaker complained any other time they found one another that close, in the same tent or otherwise. Those restless nights where the winds threatened to rip their tents away into the sky were spent hunkering down and coaxing a few candles to stay alight. Whitaker insisted on writing a bit, reading, and out loud if Andrew wasn’t able to fall asleep. His books were pretty analytical, nothing too interesting to Andrew, but it was the smooth, deep voice that captivated him. The voice that never hesitated at a complicated word in his stories, no matter how disinterested he was in the overall subject matter.

He had made one comment about how boring his books were and the next night, after they had settled down under the storm that raged around them, he tried to come up with a story on his own. Andrew helped, a bit, giving pointers to Whitaker whose details seemed to only just be stepping out of the comfort zone. From the poetry he had heard barely under his breath as he wrote, he gathered the man wasn’t very imaginative.

“There ain’t always a hero,” Whitaker explained to him one night, their candle having been snuffed out from a sharp breeze that forced open the tent. Left in the pitch black, they struggled to get comfortable next to one another. Sometimes it wound up as playful shoving to make room, other times they tolerated their bodies touching. After a few tight nights together, it began to matter less and less.

“Tons of stories out there where nothing is black and white. Ain’t some Brothers Grimm fairy tale, I mean.”

“Never heard of it,” Andrew murmured, having rolled over under the piles of spare blankets and furs to hide his cold cheeks against their makeshift pillows. He felt Whitaker against, somewhere, under all of that. “That the guy’s name?”

Whitaker let out a breath, feathered by a chuckle as he wrapped his head around, well… Andrew. The man didn’t know a damn thing outside of sweet-talking a man out of his poker winnings. Innocent aside from the thievery, the deception, the rough-house nature he seemed to radiate whenever there was a spot of warmth. Perhaps he was restless, cooped up in tents and fur all day. He stared across the darkness to what he assumed was Andrew. He could feel his warmth beneath it all, right at his fingertips.

“I’ll get you started on readin’ soon as we get you your own damn ride.”

Andrew paused, before drawing in a sleepy breath.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

It was harder than it looked, reading. Tracking down a herd of wild horses was child’s play, something Andrew could do from the back of Whitaker’s ride, nudging him in the ribs or reaching over him to grab the reins of the poor gelding and give a sharp tug. Whitaker took the time to read from his notebook or write, sometimes showing the words to Andrew, who grunted in response. Now wasn’t the best time, but Whitaker was doing his best not to write in cursive just so the other man could figure out the letters without getting a headache.

What they didn’t have time for while on the move they made up for on the slower nights through the storms. They were letting up as the new year rolled in, but even an Spring wouldn’t be enough to part the veil. Whitaker would read aloud and stop at a word, asking Andrew to try and spell it. A slow process, one that would drag on long after Andrew Rose had found a suitable candidate for a steed.

A dun horse, a _Grullo_ , Andrew explained, as the mustang would be called due to its specific slated coloring. Whitaker was surprised there was this knowledge in the package but had no time to exclaim as Andrew went on to discuss how he probably wouldn’t need help separating the mustang from the rest of its herd. The other horses seemed to vary in similar coats and masks, but this one had stood out to him.

 _A fat and cocky bastard_ , he had described him, having watched him from afar for nearly a week. Made a big show of his mane and power where his height seemed to lack. And apparently his ability to stockpile for the winter, trudging through the flat tundra alongside his fellow duns. Whitaker agreed to help but refused to completely hand over his own horse.

“You’re gonna need someone to haul your ass off right away if this goes wrong,” Whitaker muttered, feeling Andrew practically tremble with his excitement behind him. The man had a way with the horses they released from their robberies, when their own rations ran low and they had no room, or time, for a spare mare or few. There was… not _hope_ , but not as much worry.

“Second you get that rope around his neck, I’m gonna shove ya. You got one chance in this snow. Fucker might drag you off for a mile before caving your skull in. Got it?”

Andrew didn’t answer, but his nods could be felt against his shoulder. Whitaker reached back and gave the man’s stubbled cheek a pat.

“Atta boy.”

  


He held onto Calvin Whitaker for dear life, lifting himself from the saddle with each bounce of the gelding’s backside. With no saddle, a lot was at risk, but he had been through worse. Rustling horses, taming them, that would have been his career had he figured it worth much. Joshua had pointed out several times that no one was a real cowboy until they fell off a horse or got kicked by one. Whichever came first.

“ _We good?_ ” Whitaker called back to him, one hand tangled in the reins as the other held his hat down. “ _Can’t keep goin’ for much longer, yanno!_ ”

The mustang had been driven out, broken into a frenzy through the shallow snow banks once he found he was alone, followed by a strange horse and a couple of men caterwauling to pull his attention. Whitaker’s horse, faithful and strong as he was, couldn’t go on forever. They were about a mile and a half ahead of the rest of the team. The herd, what remained of it, had been steered towards the waters edge.

“ _Shit_.”

Andrew bit into the inside of his cheek as he curled one fist into Whitaker’s coat, the other gripping the spoke of the lasso, the hook of the knot between two of his fingers. He wouldn’t have to swing too far, but the second the loop was around that horse’s neck, anything could happen. They were trying their damned hardest to get as close as possible without the mustang spooking, turning sharply, possibly dragging Andrew along.

Needless to say, Whitaker considered worried for the man, his own hand coming down from the hat to touch the one that twisted in his lapel. The closer they got, the more confident these horse became racing next to one another, the more he was regretting letting Andrew try this. It had been done before, he had seen how he treated those damn mares before turning them loose, giving them soft pats, speaking gently to them.

This was no mare.

Andrew threw the rope, holding his breath, letting out a soft cry as it fell around the mustang’s head and neck. For a moment, nothing more happened, the two horses racing through the snow together. Their hooves falling in and out of sync against the snow and the frozen earth beneath. It was a heavy rhythm, one that beat in both Andrew and Whitaker’s skulls. For a moment, there was an otherworldly peace, a horizon they were both headed for. Then Andrew pulled.

The mustang reared back his head, digging his hind hooves into the earth. While the gelding raced on, despite Whitaker’s effort to even get a good turn in, Andrew didn’t follow through alongside them.

“ _Christ!_ ” Whitaker barked, watching Andrew disappear from the back of his horse in a blur.

About 800 pounds of feral beast stood between them, pulling back on the rope in its resumed frenzy. It could just bolt and drag Andrew along with him, but it seemed hellbent on escaping the discomfort around its throat. The mustang turned, bellowed, kicked snow up and pulled Andrew along in circles. All the while, he wound the rope in, getting closer and closer.

Whitaker allowed himself to get as close as his gut told him too, cursing under his breath as a foolish man put his life at the long end of a swift kick that could happen any second. Yet, they both held, Andrew reeling himself in as the horse tries to shake the intrusion off. Once at the horse’s side, he twisted the rope around his wrist, free hand gripping into the base of the wild mane, and using the momentum of the mustang’s next wild turn to hoist himself upward.

Facing forward, both hands in the mane, Andrew sat atop his prize. His back remained straight, head down to watch how the horse moved under him, the wild look in the animal’s eyes as it regarded the man atop it. There was a moment between them, mustang and master, but it would take about ten minutes before Andrew could even loosen his grip as the horse settled under him. Probably out of breath, out of energy, already heaving mad clouds into the air.

“Christ,” Whitaker breathed. He tipped his hat back and ran a hand through his hair. A nervous chuckle was all he could muster, completely blown away by the display. He stared at Andrew, and Andrew grinned back at him him.

Once the horse settled down enough to where Andrew could let go for a moment, flex his fingers, he threw the spoke to Whitaker, who fastened it to his saddle. At first, they were all apprehensive to lead a wild horse back to camp, nervous nickering and mutterings abound. Andrew didn’t mind being led about ten feet back, busying himself with the new horse anyway. Everything about this one was different to him. The heart pounding beneath his touch was wild, quite literally untamed, an unmatched power compared to the other horses he had coaxed back home with his brother.

“You think he’d be proud?” Andrew asked, finally looking up.

The question caught Whitaker off guard. _Joshua, right?_ Nothing of the sort had been brought up for some time. It’s not as if death could be shaken off so easily, but it stood to reason that in some way Andrew had still not processed it completely. Evidence of such came with the small questions about the past, catching himself talking about his brother in present term, as if he was alive, just - _somewhere else_.

“Your… brother?”

“Yeah.”

He looked over his shoulder, taking in the sight of Andrew there. New clothes that hung off a bit loosely from his shoulders and stomach, hair a windblown mess, some strands stuck to his forehead from the sweat he managed to work up. It had frozen in a sheen across his face, his nose and cheeks flushed beneath. Andrew Rose looked appropriate there, a bit unkempt and dazed from the adrenaline, but… perfect.

Hell, _Whitaker_ was proud.

“Of course. He’d be _damn_ proud.”

Andrew nodded, then sniffled, feeling a rise inside of him. As quickly as it surged through him, it was gone, leaving a stinging behind his eyes and in the back of his throat. He quickly swiped at the corners of his eyes and hoped Whitaker hadn’t seen.

He had.

* * *

 **_December 14, 1890.  
_ ** _Watched that man grab a horse like it was a flame outta thin air. Can’t even feel the tips of my fingers yet but I wanted to document the event as best as I could, following. I’ve never seen anything more ruthless or dangerous or amazing. Mr Rose is proving to be something more than some fish dragged outta the river, more than a usual thief, outlaw, criminal. More than that! He’s proven to be a damn fine man indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Whoops, long chapter, oh well.)


End file.
